The More Things Change
by Yorkshire Pudding
Summary: Remus knows everything there is to know about mourning, he’s had enough practice. But when it’s Sirius’s funeral, a visit from Harry shows Remus how much he still doesn’t know about coping.


Title: The More Things Change

Author: Yorkshire Pudding

Summary: Remus knows everything there is to know about mourning, he's had enough practice. But when it's Sirius's funeral, a visit from Harry shows Remus how much he still doesn't know about coping.

Notes: This whole fic actually began with pondering the first line while in the shower. It occurred to me that Remus must have actually done the mourning process dozens of times. That reminded me of how my grandmother used to always say, "You can get used to anything, even hanging." As you'll be able to tell from the following, I disagree. I'd be interested to know where you guys land in the spectrum: Can a person get 'the hang' (pardon the pun) of death or will there always be somebody whose loss will rock the boat?

'I've done this before,' Remus Lupin thought as he straightened his tie, his fingers flying through the motions with barely a conscious thought. They were as well trained for the task at hand as he was, which was a dark thought. How many time had he done this already? He knew exactly what to expect for the rest of the day, and even for the next few months. The tightness in his stomach hadn't gone away, but it would in a few weeks. It felt like someone had a vice on his lungs or he was sinking in tar, and he knew to expect that and how to compensate. He knew how to turn his thoughts elsewhere for the next few hours and how to force his face into a quasi-smile that would tell people, 'Yes, I'm incredibly sad, but I'm still OK.' It was a lie, of course, but it would get him through the day.

It's bad enough to be accomplished in attending funerals, but this particular mourning period was so much worse than his average funeral. He'd already gone through all this. He'd already mourned this loss, gotten as over it as he was ever going to, and moved on. Now he had to do it all again.

And this was even the same suit as the one he had worn at James and Lily's funeral. Back when the loss had been so overwhelming that he thought he could die any day, back when _this _loss had been a doubly poisonous wound, he'd worn this same suit. And, if he remembered correctly, it had been old and worn-out even then.

That hadn't been the first time he had to attend a friend's funeral. He was already pretty well versed in funeral etiquette at that point, what with the years of quiet warfare that had been going on for years. But that had been a wrench. James and Lily were unlike anyone else he had known who died. They hadn't been fighters, they were just two of his oldest friends who had tried to raise a child in the middle of a war. They were pacifists and a beacon of hope for all the rest. Their friends, the ones who spent their days in the thick of the fighting and had their battle scars and depressions, could go to Godric's Hollow and find a cup of tea and a few laughs and, on a good day, some baby spit on their shirts instead of blood. Remus had only half believed that there was an actual threat against the Potters that required their careful concealment. He had always been half convinced that they were Dumbledore's secret source of inspiration for his 'troops.' When he found a soldier who was on the verge of giving up, he took him or her to the Potters' for a cup of tea and a talk, and the soldier always walked out re-inspired. The Potters were the reason behind the fighting all wrapped up in one metaphorical package.

When Remus had stood silently next to the hole in the ground the two coffins were being slid clumsily into, he had been filled with shame that his thoughts weren't entirely focused on the three dear friends he had just lost. He was only thinking of that fourth friend. . .that fourth _whatever_ you want to call him. Friend wasn't enough, of course. But 'lover' or 'boyfriend' sounded so juvenile and – well, close. Sirius had never been much for intimacy. Not then.

Remus physically flinched when he thought of that name.

"That won't do," he told himself. "You can't keep twitching when you just _think_ of his name."

Who would have thought then that all that guilt and shame would eventually have to be re-lived? Of course, this wasn't the same sort of shame. Then, he had been guilty to mourn the loss of the murderer of his friends. He had, unbelievably, been mourning Sirius over James and Lily's open graves. The shame and the grief were so closely tied together he could barely distinguish one from the other. Now, he was feeling a similar weight of shame, tying itself up in his grief. This time, it was his own selfishness that was dragging him down.

He knew he should be fulfilling his role as mentor and teacher to Harry this time. He had already had time with this grief and he knew what Harry should expect and how he would struggle and feel alone. And, more importantly, he knew Harry would really need someone, the same way he had been so bereft all those years ago and another voice would have mended so much. He should have spent more time with Harry in these past few weeks instead of shunting him back to his horrible Muggle relatives with only a passing show of friendship. He would have, too, if it had been anyone else who had died. He would have followed his closely analyzed process of emotions and actions which follow a death, and he would have carefully guided Harry through them with him. But this wasn't just _any _death. This was Sirius, damn it.

"Damn it," he muttered as his fingers botched the tie. He let the tie hang loosely around his neck and sat down. He knew this process, damn it! He shouldn't have to do the same damn thing time and again, every time Sirius disappeared. Can't you mourn a loss once and then be done? Why the hell had Sirius bothered to be innocent and in pain and alive and come back? How the hell is a man supposed to go through this _twice_?

He felt the same way he did in the seconds before he turned into the wolf, that same crunching and tearing down deep, permeating everywhere, even his soul. His fist flew out of its own accord and slammed into the wall next to him. He had stood and knocked over the chair within the next second and was well on his way towards picking the chair up and throwing it across the room when he stopped suddenly, with the chair lifted in mid-swing.

He should have expected this. It had happened after the funeral last time and it hadn't been a chair, but the same thing had happened. He carefully put the chair back in its place. He didn't need wrecked furniture. A man should mature and be able to skip the senseless rage step at his point in life. He was a professor and a role model and role models do not shatter chairs in fits of rage. He slowly sat back down.

Think about the tie. Right over left, left over right, through the middle. . . a nice, simple activity. He got it right this time. Make some tea. Chamomile. Something soothing. And don't think about Sirius.

Don't think about Sirius.

He started filling the kettle at the faucet but a knock at the door surprised him into spilling water on the floor.

"It's open," he called as he grabbed a rag from the back of a chair. He had left it there yesterday when he had spilled an entire pitcher of milk, a clumsy accident. He had had a lot of those lately. He heard the door open and footsteps cross the room between the door and the kitchen. Remus knew those footsteps. You don't spend one night a month as a wolf for most of your life without picking up a few primitive talents.

"Hello, Harry," he said, without looking up. Harry's footsteps stopped at the door frame between the two rooms.

"Hello, professor," was the simple response. The guilt tightened in Remus's stomach. Harry sounded tired. He didn't want to look at the boy and see Lily's eyes filled with grief, but he forced himself to. Harry was looking thin, but he always did when he had spent time at the Dursleys'. His eyes were exactly as Remus had known they would be, and it stung the way he had known it would.

"Sit down, Harry. Can I get you some tea?" Remus said, trying to sound both comforting and nonchalant. "I'm just putting on the kettle."

"Thanks, professor," Harry said quietly, sliding into a chair. He tugged absent-mindedly at the sleeve of his suit. There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence.

"So. . .is this the way wizard funerals always work?" asked Harry, desperately trying to fill the room with some sort of sound besides the slow bubbling sound from the kettle.

"No, actually," Remus replied calmly, "This is a special case. We're doing this in the Muggle-way to try to keep the Ministry away. Hopefully, they don't even know it's going on."

"Oh."

Another long and even more uncomfortable silence was broken only by the quiet hiss of the kettle as it reached a boil.

"What kind of tea would you like, Harry?" Remus asked as he pulled his tiny collection out of the cupboard over the stove. "I have Chamomile, Green Tea, Orange spice, and regular. Any preference?"

"Chamomile, please."

Remus opened the next cupboard and pulled out two very old mugs. One had a very obvious chip and both had very worn patterns. The one with the chip had once had a Labrador dog picture with a caption that read, "World's Best Dog-Owner." The other had once had a picture of Paris, a remembrance of a trip he had taken in his youth. Both now were so thoroughly well used that neither picture was still visible except in his own memories. Without even realizing it, he rubbed his thumb over where the dog's face had once been. It had been a black Lab, of course. And the gift giver had thought it was the funniest thing in the world. Where had Sirius gotten it anyway? It was during that trip to Scotland, wasn't it? They had done it Muggle style, which was cheaper and more exciting, driving a car all the way. They had stopped at a gas station and there had been a gift shop, which Sirius had disappeared into while Remus was left to figure out the Muggle gas and money. When he returned, he had presented Remus with his amazing find and they had both laughed so hard they cried.

Remus cleared his throat. That was an inappropriate trail for his mind to follow. He could follow that to its conclusion tomorrow or the day after, but not in front of Harry. He wouldn't cry in front of James and Lily's child.

"How was your summer so far, Harry?" he asked to get them both out of this awkward silence as he poured the hot water into the two mugs.

"Very quiet. Nothing has happened at all," Harry said shortly.

"Are you thinking of visiting the Burrow again this year? Here," Remus continued as he handed Harry his mug.

"Thanks. No, I don't think so," Harry said. "I wouldn't feel right."

"Of course, of course. You're absolutely right," Remus said, dipping his tea-bag into the hot water and watching the brown spread through the clear until the bottom of the cup as almost invisible. "You're welcome here anytime, of course. If you need anything, you know."

Harry was quiet for a minute and looked straight into Remus's eyes. It was an odd shock for Remus, who had been stared at in a very similar way by James. One time in particular, when Remus had gotten very drunk and was on the verge of sobbing into his beer, which he had never even liked the taste of and James knew it very well. James had stared at him just like Harry was now and said, "But it's _Sirius_, isn't it? And we know him. He doesn't betray his friends." All that certainty and love in the face of Remus's overwhelming doubt had seemed prophetic when Remus had thought of it later. Only someone as deeply good and un-stained as James could have thought that friendships should never be questioned and people actually were as they appeared to be, Remus had thought. Only an innocent soul can think that, and innocents like that end up dead. But James had been right, in the end. Remus had been wrong.

"Professor—" Harry started, but Remus interrupted him.

"Please, call me Remus. I'm hardly anyone's professor."

"_Remus_, I have to say something," Harry said in that heroic tone of voice that James had once been a master of as well. That tone of voice that comes along with never having doubted anyone and with being secure and loved and surrounded by friends. But there was also deep hurt in that voice.

"Anything you need," Remus responded quietly. He had been avoiding talking to this boy for weeks, and here was his chance. He could right that wrong at least. He had so many things to regret and feel shame for, but this didn't have to be one anymore. He could wallow in self-pity later, but right now he would tell Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, James and Lily's symbol of hope, that godfathers sometimes have to die in stupid, senseless ways and there will never be any answers and sometimes you even have to feel this pain again and again.

"I'm. . .I'm. . ." Harry stammered, his face turning red with the effort of putting such a strong emotion into words. Remus knew what that was like, so he just waited. "I'm _so sorry_." Suddenly Harry's face was covered in tears and his voice was choked and throaty as he continued through his sobs. "I'm so selfish, and I've known I shouldn't be, but I couldn't help it. I should have come to see you sooner. I'm _so sorry_, I really am. I should be here to help you, and instead I've just been thinking about myself."

Suddenly, everything was happening all at once. All those steps Remus had scheduled for the next few weeks were happening at the same time, but this new feeling superceded them all. Suddenly, Harry wasn't just James and Lily's child slowly sinking into grief and needing desperately to be saved, he was an equal. He was someone who was also sad, but strong too. He was someone to lean on as well as to support. He was _a friend_. And Remus needed a friend then. God, did he need a friend. He had been feeling like the last branch of a dead tree for so long, like the last survivor of a terrible accident. He had been planning and avoiding so much to fill up the days until he could die too and then be done with it all. And there were tears on his face as well.

They sat across from each other, and felt better for the company.

Much later that day, Remus and Harry sat on a bench in the graveyard. It was a bright, hot day and the unnaturally green grass surrounded them with rows of white death markers spreading off into every direction. Remus was leaning forward, with his hands folded on his lap. He started at the gravel under the bench and watched a solitary ant make slow progress across a centimeter of space.

Harry was looking up, straight into the cloudless sky. He had one hand up to shade his eyes. He wasn't looking at anything in particular. Just the huge expanse of blue. The percentage of sky to Earth when you really look at it is so overwhelming, it can take your breath away.

Neither one of them was looking directly in front of them, across the graveled pathway, at the large, gray tombstone with the freshly-tilled pile of earth in front of it. But, even looking anywhere but there, all they could think about was the letters carved irrevocably into stone.

"Did you know your parents are buried here too, Harry?" Remus asked quietly. Harry turned his face to look at Remus. Harry nodded.

"Yes, but why here?"

"Their deaths made such a stir, you have to remember, that we were worried that their memories would be dishonored by hordes of people who didn't even know them showing up. I thought they'd have preferred it that way," Remus said, warily looking at Harry and then away quickly. "They were such solitary people. They never wanted any of this, especially not for you. They only wanted to have each other and you and to live out their lives quietly. They thought they could just stake a claim on a piece of life and the war would just let them be."

"It's a nice idea," Harry said quietly.

"Sirius thought they were just being blind to the obvious. He kept saying that when a war is on, you have to pick a side. He was so passionate back then. Nothing was simple for him. Anything he did, he did it as much as he could. And he really believed in the fight," Remus sighed. "He didn't after Azkaban. He started to sound like James. He would talk about going somewhere and just forgetting about all of this. He told me that we should just grab you and head for the hills and live like hermits." They both chuckled at the thought, but the appeal was undeniable.

"I think maybe he was right both ways. You can't just run away from Voldemort, but you have to have something else too," Harry said.

"Yes, but wouldn't it be lovely? Just for a bit, to just have peace? Complete, undisturbed peace?"

"It's a nice idea," Harry said again.

They both looked across the pathway towards the stone letters.

**Sirius Black (1960-1996), Requiem Pace**

"**A generation of men is like a generation of leaves; the wind scatters some leaves upon the ground, while others the burgeoning wood brings forth - and the season of spring comes on. So of men one generation springs forth and another ceases." (Homer)**

The End

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